


My Dismal Scene I Needs Must Act Alone

by AssassinOfRome



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Descriptions of Corpses, Episode: s04e15 Deception, Gen, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Obi-Wan Doesn't Deserve This, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Obi-Wan Kenobi is a Mess, Stream of Consciousness, This One Is Pure Angst Kids, aftermath of Zygerria, descriptions of death, descriptions of poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24116923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssassinOfRome/pseuds/AssassinOfRome
Summary: Such a little thing – barely the size of his pinkie finger and shining like oil on water in the half-light. As he uncorks it, and its bitter stench makes him flinch, he wants to call his padawans back. He wants to feel Anakin’s arms around his shoulders, Ahsoka’s hand in his. He wants to hear their laughter, see their smiles, join in with their chatter about Anakin training younglings. He doesn’t want to be alone, with the taste of almonds on his tongue and a sniper’s bullet in his shoulder.He presses the vial to his lips and then pulls it away just as quickly. They don’t have time for this - Rako Hardeen won’t linger for long, and if he’s not careful, he’ll target Anakin or Ahsoka instead. Besides, a Jedi shouldn’t fear death, especially not false death. He knows the plan inside and out. All he needs to do is drink.Obi-Wan's thoughts after taking the suppressor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 162





	My Dismal Scene I Needs Must Act Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Just a final warning that this is dark - a lot darker than most of my other stuff. Please read at your own discretion.

Obi-Wan waits for the sound of Anakin’s footsteps to flutter into the distance before ducking behind a bulbous metal pipe as he pulls out the vial that will change the war. 

Such a little thing – barely the size of his pinkie finger and shining like oil on water in the half-light. As he uncorks it, and its bitter stench makes him flinch, he wants to call his padawans back. He wants to feel Anakin’s arms around his shoulders, Ahsoka’s hand in his. He wants to hear their laughter, see their smiles, join in with their chatter about Anakin training younglings. He doesn’t want to be alone, with the taste of almonds on his tongue and a sniper’s bullet in his shoulder. 

He presses the vial to his lips and then pulls it away just as quickly. They don’t have time for this - Rako Hardeen won’t linger for long, and if he’s not careful, he’ll target Anakin or Ahsoka instead. Besides, a Jedi shouldn’t fear death, especially not false death. He knows the plan inside and out. All he needs to do is drink. 

But what if the suppresser doesn’t work? He’ll take damage in the fall, definitely, but not enough to kill him. He’s been injured enough times to know what bacta can fix, and even a snapped neck or fractured spine can be healed. Sure, he’ll have been shot but he gets shot about twice a week lately. If there’s even a hint that he’s breathing, Anakin will do anything to resuscitate him. 

What if it does work, and he wakes early? The Council assured there would be no pyre, nor any drawn-out funeral, but there will no doubt be some ceremony while he is asleep. His body will be lowered into the temple crypt and kept there for some time as the mourners pay their respects, a single beam of white light shining through the memorial chamber as a reminder of the Force’s great unity. It’s an honour usually only reserved for the most senior Jedi, who die in serenity at the Temple. But he can’t imagine any sort of peace if he wakes trapped in the vault. He won’t be able to bang or cry out without unmasking the plot, but oxygen will be low in such an enclosed place. And the bones – surely he’ll be surrounded by the bones of those passed before. He’ll be stifled under the weight of all that history, unable to make a single sound. 

Tybar Calut would be there too; she was the last to be interred at the Temple, in recognition of her incredible sacrifice on Genosis, where the padawan had given her life to save Master Yoda’s. Many Jedi died that day, all because of him. They’d come to save him from his own foolhardy actions, and had paid for his mistakes with their lives. Obi-Wan is no stranger to death, so he knows a body only two years dead will hardly be bone yet. She’ll be festering, no longer the image of purity, but shot through with fungus and mould. Her eyes, or what remains of them, would be staring endlessly into his as her face crumbles into dust. The thought alone makes him gag and he almost drops the vial, but he catches it at the last moment and pushes it again to his mouth. It’s somehow colder now.

He doesn’t let himself think about the pain he’ll be in. Windu had mentioned it in passing – had said that with the suppresser, Obi-Wan won’t feel a thing. But dying itself is a wickedly painful experience. He’d seen enough death, held enough people through their final breaths to know that it is rarely peaceful. Some people scream, others cry, everyone chokes and gags out their final breaths. Even Qui-Gon, the calmest man Obi-Wan had ever met, had clutched his fingers at the last moment, desperate for just one more inhale as his lungs filled with blood. 

But somehow, that image brings him serenity. Not Qui-Gon dying, no. That still haunts him every time he closes his eyes. No, it’s the thought that – should this work – no-one else would suffer the same awful fate. If he can pull this off, there will be no more slaves whipped in mines because he was stupid enough to get them hurt. No clone will ever hold their vod’s hand as they try to staunch the bleeding of a fatal wound. No more padawans will cling to their masters as they slip into the Force. He’s not helpless anymore. He doesn’t have to sit back and watch the galaxy suffer. He can act, can save people, can bring an end to this dreadful and disgusting war. No-one else needs to be hurt because of his presence. 

And all he has to do is die. 

He doesn’t even remember drinking, though the suppressor’s vile tang coats the inside of his mouth. Already he can feel the tingling, and tries to swallow but everything feels dry. He staggers forwards a few steps, the glass bottle tinkling to the floor. He should pick it up – if Anakin were to find it – but when he leans down the world starts to spin and won’t stop, even when he holds his head still. At least, he thinks he’s holding his head; his hands are numb and his head is pounding. His jaw has locked itself shut, but that doesn’t stop saliva from leaking out like a rabid dog. A streak of fire has burned down his throat and when it reaches his stomach, it begins to churn until a sea of nausea gushes up his throat. He needs to be sick, but makes himself swallow it back down. 

He takes a deep breath, and then another. He has a job to do. 

Almost unaware, he steps out from his hiding place. Coruscant is bright even to his blurry eyes, and for a city, the air is clear. But the longer he savours it, the colder he feels. Colder and colder until he’s shivering, shaking, twitching involuntarily and swaying in place. Stars, he feels ill. He feels sick and he wants it to stop. He wants to go to bed. He wants to go home. 

The bullet pierces his chest, and he hears the breath push out of his lungs, but he doesn’t feel anything. He raises a weak hand to paw at the wound, almost to check it’s still there. His nerveless feet trip over each other and he just about registers the brush of the roof against his calves before he’s tumbling backwards. 

Oddly enough, it does feel a bit like flying. But not his recent flights, where his palms would go sweaty on the controls and his heart would race. No, this feels like flying without fear, the gentle breeze brushing his cheeks and whistling around him. 

It’s almost peaceful. Well, it would be. 

If he hadn’t stopped breathing ten seconds ago. 

The suppressor isn’t kind enough to knock him out before he hits the boxes and he feels a sickening crunch as his spine splits in two. The momentum spins him forward, and he smacks his face against the cold ground. But he can’t groan – he’s got nothing left to groan with. 

Everything is slipping now, and there’s a rim of grey around his vision that gets thicker with every passing moment. He can only just feel Ahsoka turning him over. She really shouldn’t have done that because something clicks and his whole lower half feels like static. Does bacta fix paralysis? If not, they’ve just made a horrendous mistake. 

Either way, they’ve done something awful, because Ahsoka’s face is wrenched in pain. She’s cradling his head, her gentle fingers carding through his hair as if that will help at all. He can’t even reach up to stroke the tears away from her face, and so they drip onto his, mixing with the single tear he’d let himself cry as he fell. 

His eyesight fails first, and the pain slowly seeps away along with all sensation. It’s almost like he’s sleeping; he could be floating in meditation. Except he can still hear, and Anakin’s anguished cries are more than just sound, tugging hard on their bond until it threatens to snap entirely. It’s all he can do to send one last warm pulse to his beloved padawan before slipping entirely under. 

And if he doesn’t wake? 

Well, at least it won’t hurt anymore. 

He can finally, finally – 

Sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Oooh big yikes. I don't really know where this came from but once I started writing, I felt compelled to finish. 
> 
> The title (and tbh inspiration) comes from Romeo and Juliet, especially the scene where Juliet puts herself into a death-like trance. I thought it nicely mirrored Obi-Wan at this moment, and I love Shakespeare enough to have finally completed my degree in his work. 
> 
> I know this is a rough time for everybody, but I hope you don't feel nearly as bad as Obi in this work. If you are feeling bad at all, talk to someone you love, even if it's a pet to start with. Take care of yourself - eat, drink, shower, take your meds, get some exercise, practice self-care. You are loved and valuable <3 And if you ever need a friend, you can reach me at my tumblr sandfordsmostwanted <3 Stay strong and kick butt! You got this!


End file.
